Ãcariya Mun strongly believed that
the observance of dhutanga practices truly
exemplified the spirit of the ascetic way of life.
He strictly adhered to these ascetic practices
throughout his life, and always urged those monks
studying under his tutelage to adopt them in their
own practice.

Going on almsround every day without
fail, excepting only those days when a monk is
deliberately abstaining from food. Ãcariya Mun
taught his disciples that, when walking to the
village for alms, they should always have
mindfulness present and remain properly restrained
in body, speech, and mind. A monk should never
permit his mind to accidentally become prey to the
various tempting sense objects contacting his eyes,
ears, nose, tongue, body, or mind while walking to
and from the village on almsround. He stressed that
mindfulness should bring their every movement, every
thought, at every step of the route, under vigilant
scrutiny. This should be treated as a sacred duty
requiring reflection of the utmost seriousness each
time a monk prepares to go on his morning almsround.

Eating only that food which has been
accepted in the alms bowl on almsround. A monk
should consider the quantity of food he receives in
his bowl each day to be sufficient for his needs, as
befits one who is content with little, and thus
easily satisfied. For him its counter-productive to
expect extra food by accepting the generous
offerings that are made later inside the monastery.
Such practices easily encourage the insatiable greed
of his kilesas, allowing them to gain the strength
to become so domineering that they’re almost
impossible to counteract. A monk eats whatever food
is offered into his bowl, never feeling anxious or
upset should it fail to meet his expectations.
Anxiety about food is a characteristic of hungry
ghosts – beings tormented by the results of their
own bad kamma. Never receiving enough food to
satisfy their desires, they run madly around,
desperately trying to fill their mouths and
stomachs, always preferring the prospect of food to
the practice of Dhamma. The ascetic practice of
refusing to accept any food offered after almsround
is an excellent way of contravening the tendency to
be greedy for food. It is also the best method to
cut off all expectancy concerning food, and the
anxiety that it creates. Eating only one meal per
day is just right for the meditative lifestyle of a
dhutanga monk, since he needn’t worry about food at
all hours of the day. Otherwise, he could easily
become more worried about his stomach than he is
about Dhamma – a most undignified attitude for one
sincerely seeking a way to transcend dukkha. Even
when eating only once a day, there are times when a
monk should reduce his consumption, eating much less
than he normally would at that one meal. This
practice helps facilitate the work of meditation,
for eating too much food can make the mental
faculties sluggish and unresponsive. In addition, a
monk whose temperament is suited to this practice
can be expected to experience results invaluable to
his spiritual development. This particular dhutanga
observance is a useful tool for eliminating the
greedy mentality of practicing monks who tend to be
infatuated with food.

In this respect, the safeguards of
Dhamma operate in much the same manner as the
safeguards that society has introduced to protect
itself. Enemies of society are confronted and
subdued wherever they pose a threat to wealth,
property, life and limb, or peace of mind. Whether
it be fierce animals, such as wild dogs, snakes,
elephants and tigers, or pestilent diseases, or
simply pugnacious individuals, societies all over
the world possess appropriate corrective measures,
or medicines, to effectively subdue and protect
themselves against these threats. A dhutanga monk
whose mind displays pugnacious tendencies in its
desire for food, or any other unwholesome qualities
deemed distasteful, needs to have effective measures
for correcting these threatening tendencies. Thus,
he will always possess the kind of admirable
self-restraint which is a blessing for him and a
pleasing sight for those with whom he
associates. Eating only one meal per day is an
excellent way to restrain unwieldy mental states.

Eating all food directly from the
alms bowl without using any other utensils is a
practice eminently suited to the lifestyle of a
dhutanga monk who strives to be satisfied with
little while wandering from place to place. Using
just his alms bowl means there’s no need to be
loaded down with a lot of cumbersome accessories as
he travels from one location to another, practicing
the ascetic way of life. At the same time, it is an
expedient practice for monks wishing to unburden
themselves of mental clutter; for each extra item
they carry and look after, is just one more concern
that weighs on their minds. For this reason,
dhutanga monks should pay special attention to the
practice of eating exclusively from the alms bowl.
In truth, it gives rise to many unique benefits.
Mixing all types of food together in the bowl is a
way of reminding a monk to be attentive to the food
he eats, and to investigate its true nature using
mindfulness and wisdom to gain a clear insight into
the truth about food.

Ãcariya Mun said that, for him,
eating from the bowl was just as important as any
other dhutanga practice. He gained numerous insights
while contemplating the food he was eating each day.
Throughout his life he strictly observed this
ascetic practice.

Investigating the true nature of food
mixed together in the bowl is an effective means of
cutting off strong desire for the taste of food.
This investigation is a technique used to remove
greed from a monk’s mind as he eats his meal. Greed
for food is thus replaced by a distinct awareness of
the truth concerning that food: food’s only true
purpose is to nourish the body, allowing it to
remain alive from one day to the next. In this way,
neither the pleasant flavor of good foods, nor the
unpleasant flavor of disagreeable foods, will cause
any mental balance that might prompt the mind to
waver. If a monk employs skillful investigative
techniques each time he begins to eat, his mind will
remain steadfast, dispassionate, and contented –
unmoved by excitement or disappointment over the
taste of the food he is offered. Consequently,
eating directly from the alms bowl is an excellent
practice for getting rid of infatuation with the
taste of food.

Wearing only robes made from
discarded cloth is another dhutanga observance that
Ãcariya Mun practiced religiously. This ascetic
practice is designed to forestall the temptation to
give in to the heart’s natural inclination to desire
nice, attractive-looking robes and other requisites.
It entails searching in places, like cemeteries, for
discarded pieces of cloth, collecting them little by
little, then stitching the pieces together to make a
usable garment, such as an upper robe, a lower robe,
an outer robe, a bathing cloth, or any other
requisite. There were times, when the dead person’s
relatives were agreeable, that Ãcariya Mun collected
the shroud used to wrap a corpse laid out in a
charnel ground. Whenever he found discarded pieces
of cloth on the ground while on almsround, he would
pick them up and use them for making robes –
regardless of the type of cloth or where it came
from. Returning to the monastery, he washed them,
and then used them to patch a torn robe, or to make
a bathing cloth. This he routinely did wherever he
stayed. Later as more and more faithful supporters
learned of his practice, they offered him robe
material by intentionally discarding pieces of cloth
in charnel grounds, or along the route he took for
almsround, or around the area where he stayed, or
even at the hut where he lived. Thus his original
practice of strictly taking only pieces of old,
discarded cloth was altered somewhat according to
circumstances: he was obliged to accept cloth the
faithful had placed as offerings in strategic
locations. Be that as it may, he continued to wear
robes made from discarded cloth until the day he
died.

Ãcariya Mun insisted that in order to
live in comfort a monk must comport himself like a
worthless old rag. If he can rid himself of the
conceit that his virtuous calling makes him somebody
special, then he will feel at ease in all of his
daily activities and personal associations, for
genuine virtue does not arise from such assumptions.
Genuine virtue arises from the self-effacing
humility and forthright integrity of one who is
always morally and spiritually conscientious. Such
is the nature of genuine virtue: without hidden
harmful pride, that person is at peace with himself
and at peace with the rest of the world wherever he
goes. The ascetic practice of wearing only robes
made from discarded cloth serves as an exceptionally
good antidote to thoughts of pride and
selfimportance.

A practicing monk should understand
the relationship between himself and the virtuous
qualities he aspires to attain. He must never permit
pride to grab possession of the moral and spiritual
virtues he cultivates within his heart. Otherwise,
dangerous fangs and daggers will spring up in the
midst of those virtuous qualities – even though
intrinsically they’re a source of peace and
tranquillity. He should train himself to adopt the
self-effacing attitude of being a worthless old rag
until it becomes habitual, while never allowing
conceit about his worthiness to come to the surface.
A monk must cultivate this noble quality and ingrain
it deeply in his personality, making it an intrinsic
character trait as steadfast as the earth. He will
thus remain unaffected by words of praise, or of
criticism. Moreover, a mind totally devoid of
conceit is a mind imperturbable in all
circumstances. Ãcariya Mun believed that the
practice of wearing robes made from discarded cloth
was one sure way to help attenuate feelings of
self-importance buried deep within the heart.

Living in the forest. Realizing the
value of this dhutanga observance from the very
beginning, Ãcariya Mun found forest dwelling
conducive to the eerie, secluded feeling associated
with genuine solitude. Living and meditating in the
natural surroundings of a forest environment awakens
the senses and encourages mindfulness for remaining
vigilant in all of one’s daily activities:
mindfulness accompanying every waking moment, every
waking thought. The heart feels buoyant and
carefree, unconstrained by worldly responsibilities.
The mind is constantly on the alert, earnestly
focusing on its primary objective – the
transcendence of dukkha. Such a sense of urgency
becomes especially poignant when living far from
the nearest settlement, at locations deep in remote
forest areas teeming with all kinds of wild animals.
In a constant state of readiness, the mind feels as
though it’s about to soar up and out of the deep
abyss of the kilesas mental states that cloud the
mind and manifest in unwholesome actions. Kleshas include
states of mind such as anxiety, fear, anger,
jealousy, desire, depression, etc. )at any moment –
like a bird taking flight.In truth, the kilesas
remain ensconced there in the heart as always. It is
the evocative forest atmosphere that tends to
inspire this sense of liberation. Sometimes, due to
the power of this favorable environment, a monk
becomes convinced that his kilesas are diminishing
rapidly with each passing day, while those remaining
appear to be ever more scarce. This
unfettered feeling is a constant source of support
for the practice of meditation.

A monk living deep in the forest
tends to consider the wild animals living around him
– both those inherently dangerous and those that are
harmless – with compassion, rather than with fear or
apathy. He realizes that all animals, dangerous and
harmless, are his equals in birth, ageing, sickness,
and death. We human beings are superior to animals
merely by virtue of our moral awareness: our ability
to understand difference between good and evil.
Lacking this basic moral judgment, we are no better
than common animals. Unknown to them we label these
creatures ‘animals’, even though the human species
is itself a type of animal. The human animal is fond
of labeling other species, but we have no idea what
kind of label other animals have given to us. Who
knows? Perhaps they have secretly labeled human
beings ‘ogres’ , since we’re so fond of mistreating
them, slaughtering them for their meat – or just for
sport. It’s a terrible shame the way we humans
habitually exploit these creatures; our treatment of
them can be quite merciless. Even among our own
kind, we humans can’t avoid hating and
harassing each other, constantly molesting or
killing one another. The human world is troubled
because people tend to molest and kill each other,
while the animal world is troubled because humans
tend to do the same to them. Consequently, animals
are instinctively wary of human beings.

Ãcariya Mun claimed that life in the
forest provides unlimited opportunities for thought
and reflection about one’s own heart, and its
relation to many natural phenomena in the external
environment. Anyone earnestly desiring to go beyond
dukkha can find plenty of inspiration in the forest,
plenty of incentive to intensify his efforts –
constantly.

At times, groups of wild boars
wandered into the area where Ãcariya Mun was walking
in meditation. Instead of running away in panic when
they saw him, they continued casually foraging for
food in their usual way. He said they seemed to be
able to differentiate between him and all the
merciless ‘ogres’ of this world, which is why they
kept rooting around for food so casually, instead of
running for their lives.

Here I would like to digress from the
main story a little to elaborate on this subject.
You might be tempted to think that wild boars were
unafraid of Ãcariya Mun because he was a lone
individual living deep in the forest. But, when my
own monastery, Wat Pa Baan Taad, was first
established and many monks were living together
there, herds of wild boars took refuge inside the
monastery, wandering freely through the area where
the monks had their living quarters. At night they
moved around unafraid, only a few yards from the
monks’ meditation tracks– so close that they could
be heard snorting and thumping as they rooted in the
ground. Even the sound of the monks calling to one
another to come and see this sight for themselves
failed to alarm the wild boars. Continuing to wander
freely through the monastery grounds every night,
boars and monks soon became thoroughly accustomed to
each other. Nowadays, wild boars only infrequently
wander into the monastery because ogres, as animals
refer to us humans – according to Ãcariya Mun – have
since killed and eaten almost all the wild animals
in the area. In another few years, they probably
will have all disappeared.

Living in the forest, Ãcariya Mun met
the same situation: almost every species of animal
likes to seek refuge in the areas where monks live.
Wherever monks take up residence, there are always a
lot of animals present. Even within the monastery
compounds of large metropolitan areas, animals –
especially dogs – constantly find shelter. Some city
monasteries are home to hundreds of dogs, for monks
never harm them in any way. This small example is
enough to demonstrate the cool, peaceful nature of
Dhamma, a spirit of harmlessness that’s offensive to
no living creature in this world – except, perhaps,
the most hardhearted individuals.

Ãcariya Mun’s experience of living in
the forest convinced him just how supportive that
environment is to meditation practice. The forest
environment is ideal for those wishing to transcend
dukkha. It is without a doubt the most appropriate
battlefield to choose in one’s struggle to attain
all levels of Dhamma, as evidenced by the
preceptor’s first instructions to a newly ordained
monk: Go look for a suitable forest location in
which to do your practice. Ãcariya Mun maintained
this ascetic observance to the end of his life,
except on infrequent occasions when circumstances
mitigated against it. A monk living in the forest is
constantly reminded of how isolated and vulnerable
he is. He can’t afford to be unmindful. As a result
of such vigilance, the spiritual benefits of this
practice soon become obvious.

Dwelling at the foot of a tree is a
dhutanga observance that closely resembles living in
the forest. Ãcariya Mun said that he was dwelling
under the shade of a solitary tree the day his citta
completely transcended the world – an event that
will be fully dealt with later on. A lifestyle that
depends on the shade of a tree for a roof and the
only protection against the elements is a lifestyle
conducive to constant introspection. A mind
possessing such constant inner focus is always
prepared to tackle the kilesas, for its attention is
firmly centered on the Four Foundations of
Mindfulness – rýpa, vedanã, citta, and dhamma – and
The Four Noble Truths – dukkha, samudaya, nirodha,
and magga. Together, these factors constitute the
mind’s most effective defense, protecting it during
its all-out assault on the kilesas. In the eerie
solitude of living in the forest, the constant fear
of danger can motivate the mind to focus undivided
attention on the Foundations of Mindfulness, or the
Noble Truths. In doing so, it acquires a solid basis
for achieving victory in its battle with the kilesas
– such is the true path leading to the Noble Dhamma.
A monk who wishes to thoroughly understand himself,
using a safe and correct method, should find an
appropriate meditation subject and a suitable
location that are conducive for him to exert a
maximum effort. These combined elements will help to
expedite his meditation progress immeasurably. Used
as an excellent means for destroying kilesas since
the Buddha’s time, the dhutanga observance of
dwelling at the foot of a tree is another practice
meriting special attention.

Staying in a cemetery is an ascetic
practice which reminds monks and lay people alike
not to be neglectful while they are still alive,
believing that they themselves will never die. The
truth of the matter is: we are all in the process of
dying, little by little, every moment of every day.
The people who died and were relocated to the
cemetery – where their numbers are so great there’s
scarcely any room left to cremate or bury them – are
the very same people who were dying little by little
before; just as we are now. Who in this world
seriously believes himself to be so unique that he
can claim immunity from death?

We are taught to visit cemeteries so
that we won’t forget the countless relatives with
whom we share birth, ageing, sickness, and death; so
as to constantly remind ourselves that we too live
daily in the shadow of birth, ageing, sickness, and
death. Certainly no one who still wanders aimlessly
through the endless round of birth and death would
be so uncommonly bold as to presume that he will
never be born, grow old, become sick, or die. Since
they are predisposed toward the attainment of
freedom from this cycle by their very vocation,
monks should study the root causes of the continuum
of suffering within themselves. They should educate
themselves by visiting a cemetery where cremations
are performed, and by reflecting inwardly on the
crowded cemetery within themselves where untold
numbers of corpses are brought for burial all the
time: such a profusion of old and new corpses are
buried within their bodies that it’s impossible to
count them all. By contemplating the truly grievous
nature of life in this world, they use mindfulness
and wisdom to diligently probe, explore, and analyze
the basic principles underlying the truth of life
and death.

Everyone who regularly visits a
cemetery – be it an outdoor cemetery or the inner
cemetery within their bodies – and uses death as the
object of contemplation, can greatly reduce their
smug sense of pride in being young, in being alive,
in being successful. Unlike most people, those who
regularly contemplate death don’t delight in feeling
self-important. Rather, they tend to see their own
faults, and gradually try to correct them, instead
of merely looking for and criticizing other people’s
faults– a bad habit that brings unpleasant
consequences. This habit resembles a chronic disease
that appears to be virtually incurable, or perhaps
it could be remedied if people weren’t more
interested in aggravating the infection than they
are in curing it.

Cemeteries offer those interested in
investigating these matters an opportunity to
develop a comprehensive knowledge and understanding
of the nature of death. Cemeteries are the great
gathering places of the world. All people without
exception must eventually meet there. Death is no
small hurdle to be easily stepped over before a
thorough investigation of the issue. Before they
finally crossed over, the Lord Buddha and his
Arahant disciples had to study in the ‘great
academy’of birth, ageing, sickness, and death until
they had mastered the entire curricula. Only then
were they able to cross over with ease. They had
escaped the snares of Mãra, unlike those who,
forgetting themselves, disregard death and take no
interest in contemplating its inevitability; even as
it stares them in the face.

Visiting cemeteries to contemplate
death is an effective method for completely
overcoming the fear of dying; so that, when death
seems imminent, courage alone arises despite the
fact that death is the most terrifying thing in the
world. It would seem an almost impossible feat, but
it has been accomplished by those who practice
meditation – the Lord Buddha and his Arahant
disciples being the supreme examples. Having
accomplished this feat themselves, they taught
others to thoroughly investigate every aspect of
birth, ageing, sickness, and death so that people
wanting to take responsibility for their own
well-being can use this practice to correct their
misconceptions before it becomes too late. If they
reach that ‘great academy’ only when their last
breath is taken, it will then be too late for
remedial action: the only remaining options will be
cremation and burial. Observing moral precepts,
making merit, and practicing meditation will no
longer be possible.

Ãcariya Mun well understood the value
of a visit to the cemetery, for a cemetery has
always been the kind of place that encourages
introspection. He always showed a keen interest in
visiting cemeteries– both the external variety and
the internal one. One of his disciples, being
terrified of ghosts, made a valiant effort to follow
his example in this. We don’t normally expect monks
to be afraid of ghosts, which is equivalent to
Dhamma being afraid of the world – but this monk was
one such case.